


I Told It Not

by passionately_curious



Category: Hunger Games (2012), Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, Language, Minor Character Death, Prompts in Panem, Violence, wrath - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 14:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/passionately_curious/pseuds/passionately_curious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warning - minor character death, language</p><p>Peeta and Katniss survive their final Reaping for the Hunger Games but they are not protected from its effects. “I was angry with my friend: I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow.” - William Blake</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Told It Not

The residents of District 12, like all residents of Panem, grew up hearing about the Dark Days that led to the creation of the Hunger Games, a competition in which in which one boy and one girl between the ages of 12 and 18 were sent off to their almost certain death. The Capitol tells them it’s a time of both repentance for the rebellion that destroyed District 13 and gratitude for not being destroyed themselves. But there was little to be thankful for when your children are being sent off to die while those who remained are forced to watch.

In the history of the Hunger Games, District 12 has had two Victors. The first, a woman from the fifth Games, and Haymitch Abernathy, the only living Victor of a Quarter Quell. If the District wasn’t required to show him during every Reaping, none of the  would be able to pick him out as a Victor. Haymitch seemed to prefer it that way. As did the rest of them. It was simply the way of District 12.

This Reaping, the 74th Hunger Games, was Peeta Mellark’s last. He turned 18 four months prior, but knew better than to start counting his chickens yet. The odds were less in his favor at 18 than they were at 12, even as a Merchant. It was the cruelest trick of the Games, he reasoned. You were most at ease your first year, even with six years of Reapings ahead of you, but felt most nervous during your last year.

He caught himself looking around at the other 18-year-old boys. Boys he had known since elementary school. Across the path, in a second roped area, were the girls. His eyes automatically focused on one girl, with a long, dark braid hanging down her olive-toned back. The girl he had watched since they were five. Her jaw was set but he watched the muscles flex during the mayor’s speech. Her eyes were set straight forward, unlike the girls around her who were searching for their friends, making silent plans to celebrate surviving the Reaping. Katniss Everdeen didn’t have friends to celebrate with. Peeta didn’t know if she had friends in general, beyond Gale Hawthorne and Madge Undersee. But if she survived this one, she’d be safe as well. They all would be.

“Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor.”

Effie Trinket’s accent was absolutely ridiculous. But no one laughed. There’s nothing funny about Reapings. His mother smacked that lesson into him after he and his brothers mimicked her accent after his first Reaping.

“Ladies first.”

Every year, something strange happens when it comes time for the drawing. Everyone in the crowd stands straighter, even those who have no potential investment in the tributes. The birds, which had been flying overhead and chirping as though it were just another muggy summer day, cease their noise. It’s a silent vortex, broken only by the clicks of Effie Trinket’s heels against the wooden stage. Peeta could swear the Capitol had put microphones in the glass ball because each swipe of her hand is amplified throughout the square.

“Delly Cartwright.”

His heart dropped to his stomach.  _Not Delly._  If there was one girl he wanted to protect from the horrors of the arena, other than Katniss, it was Delly. At least Katniss could hunt; she would have a fighting chance. But Delly was so sweet and friendly toward everyone. She, above any other 18-year-old he knew, deserved better than to die at the hands of a cold-blooded killer. She deserved to share her lightness with the rest of the District. He knew it wasn’t a fair thing to think, as none of the 23 tributes who died each year deserved to die, of course. He was ashamed to think that those who volunteered, who participated in the bloodbath at the Cornucopia, maybe those tributes deserved to be in the arena a little more than the starving tributes from the outlying Districts. And definitely more than Delly.

As the crowd cleared to allow Delly through, he shot his arm out to her. She grabbed his hand and he gave it a squeeze. She looked so brave, not wavering her stoic glance, but he knew the look in her eye and he knew how hard she was trying not to break down. She smiled at him and released his hand. Each step she took up toward the stage made his heart break over and over.

He didn’t know the male tribute. A 14-year-old from the Seam. No one expressed disdain over his name being drawn. No one ever did. As soon as both tributes were escorted into the Justice Building, the back group of children let out a collective sigh. They were all safe. Forever. Peeta should have excited, he should have joined in with their celebrations. His father makes his way to where he’s still standing and hugs him.

“I don’t know what I would have done if it had been you.”

He believed his father - his good, kind father who gave cookies away on Reaping day. Who provided bread to the families whose children would never come home.

But what about Delly? The Cartwright’s shoe store was located right next door to the bakery. She was Peeta’s best friend. His father often referred to her as the daughter he never had. Not around his wife, of course: she hated Delly Cartwright and was always making snide remarks under her breath about the girl. It was one more way to hurt her children, though it may not have been her original intent. Peeta wanted to comfort his father, who was still hugging him, but all he could think about was Delly.

The boys and girls around him let out cheers and whoops and began running around the square excitedly. He watched Merchant children make jokes and laugh with one another. Merchant children who grew up with Delly Cartwright, who were friends with her. It was a surreal experience for Peeta Mellark. He knew of some of the prior tributes, students he had passed in the hall or who bought baked goods from his family; somehow, though, no one from his age group had ever been Reaped. They had been lucky in that regard. But they all knew Delly. And they seemed to have forgotten all about their selfless classmate who smiled at everyone, even the poorest children from the Seam. It just wasn’t fair.

He pushed away from his father and ran toward the Justice Building. A Peacekeeper stepped to block his entrance. “Which tribute, Boy?” he asked in a gruff voice.

Peeta’s fists tightened, his fingernails cutting into the soft flesh of his palms. ‘She has a name!’ he wanted to shout. ‘She’s still alive!’ Instead, through gritted teeth, he mumbled, “Delly Cartwright.”

From outside her door, he could hear Delly’s attempts to console her mother. When the Peacekeepers opened the door to escort her family out, Peeta rushed in and wrapped his arms around her neck. “I’m so sorry,” he cried into her shoulder. “It shouldn’t be you. It shouldn’t be you, Delly.”

Tributes were allowed five minutes with each guest. They cried together, wrapped protectively in one another’s arms the entire time. Delly was too good for her fate. He felt his blood boil at the thought of the Capitol ruining the preciousness of such a girl. No matter what, Delly would forever be ruined by this. Win or lose, he would lose a piece of his best friend. Killing another child, even if it is for your own survival, changes you.

His face was still stained with tears when he left the Justice Building, but he didn’t care. He stormed through the groups of his classmates who were still gathered outside, hugging one another. One boy grabbed his arm to congratulate him. But Peeta didn’t want to hear any congratulations. He shoved the boy’s chest, as hard as he could, until he ass-planted in the dirt. “Fuck you, Mellark!” The boy yelled, pushing himself up off the ground.

But Peeta didn’t care. He didn’t even bother to look back to see who the hell it was that he knocked down. When he got home, he slammed the bakery door so hard that it shook loose a few of the decorations on the wall. He stormed up the stairs, blatantly ignoring his mother’s screaming at him. This wasn’t his usual quiet resolve he had when she would attack him, either verbally or physically, but a vicious snarl that curled around his being. His father knocked gently on his door, calling him down for supper. He pushed his vegetables around his plate with his fork, purposely scratching the twines to create the screeching noise he knew would make his mother’s skin crawl.

"You will ruin that plate, Peeta Mellark."

He fixed his eyes on her and with a straight face, ran his fork forcefully across it.

"That’s enough," Peeta’s father said quietly, placing his hand over Peeta’s. "That’s enough. Have you boys thanked your mother for today’s feast?" Reaping dinners were always more extravagant than any other time of the year. And with their youngest son finally free from the Reaping, the Mellarks prepared a particularly large dinner.

Peeta’s two brothers mumbled a “thank you” directed toward their mother. She noticed that Peeta was not a part of it and cocked an eyebrow. “Yes,” she answered. “Thankfully we could afford this fine spread. Not like the Cartwrights. Though, luckily, they now have one less mouth to feed.”

The plate flew right past her ear and shattered against the wall. The kitchen fell silent as the porcelain pieces fell to the ground. Peeta sat in his seat, his hand still raised, pupils fat in arousal. He pushed his chair back so hard it left scratches on the stone floor and fell to the ground. “I’ll excuse myself,” he announced.

Peeta only emerged from his room to watch the mandatory programming about the Games. First was the tribute parade, and Peeta was filled with a new sense of hope when Delly and her partner’s carriage emerged. The tight red jumpsuit, combined with her flowing blonde hair,  bought into the illusion of fire that her stylists must have been going for. Save the Mayor’s family, the Cartwrights were easily the wealthiest family in the District. His mother would often mention off-hand that the young girl should give up some of her luxuries - the sweets she often shared or pastries she bought every week from the bakery - as they were starting to take a toll on her waistline.

The blazing red jumpsuit showed that those treats seemed to have done her body well. Already, she was giving the hot, dangerous blonde from District 1 a run for her money in the “sexpot” department. And judging by the sneer on said blonde’s face, as the District 12 chariot joined the others, she knew it, too. But there was one thing Delly had that Peeta knew would work in her favor: both girls were sexy, but only Delly had that charming smile and air of attainability that made her likable. Men would want her. Women would want to be her friend. Her stylists had done their job well.

His oldest brother shared the sentiment. “She may be like a female Finnick Odair at this rate.”

“Right?” the middle Mellark agreed. “If I had known what she was hiding under those jumpers maybe I’d have been as close to her as Peet was.”

Peeta kicked his middle brother as hard as he could in the shin.

"What the hell, Peeta!" Rye yelled, grabbing his already bruising leg.

"Fuck you, Rye!" Peeta spat, kicking his brother again. Rye huddled over on the floor and it took both his father and oldest brother to pull Peeta away from him. "Fuck you, you mother fucking asshole!" His heart was racing and he could hear his blood flowing through his ears. His limbs thrashed around like a feral beast and all he could focus on was this asshole brother objectifying his best friend.

They dragged him into the kitchen where his father dumped a bucket of cold water over his head. “Enough!” he roared at his youngest son. “That is enough. I know this is hard for you, Peeta, but that does NOT excuse this behavior.”

Peeta clenched his jaw and breathed hotly out of his nostrils. “Can I be excused?” He pushed his father’s hands away and retreated to his room, passing by the living room where Rye was still huddled near the couch.

His mother didn’t let him sulk in his room. The Hunger Games was no excuse for work not being completed, and she forced him back into the bakery to make himself useful. However, the normally charming Mellark brother, the one who could convince merchants and Peacekeepers alike that they ‘really would like that extra cookie’ or that ‘your husband would love to have a cake tonight,’ was banished to the back room when he snapped at a child who pressed her face against the glass counter. Peeta didn’t care. That child looked too much like Delly. Before Delly got a training score of seven. Before she showed how handy she was with throwing knives and killing two tributes who were closing in on her.

Some days, he didn’t know if he wanted Delly to come back or not. In his mind, she was already dead. She signed her death certificate the moment her name was called.

She made it into the top-six, elating everyone back home and surprising the commentators who must have bought into her original characterization of being a “sweet girl.” For the first time since before the Reaping, Peeta’s body felt lighter, freer. The darkness that had been festering inside him was gone. He even smiled when he saw the Capitol reporters cram themselves into her family’s shoe store. And when they interviewed him, there was no glimmer of anger in his eyes. He was seething when they aired, however. Her parents were hopeful for her return. Her brother, who was the spitting image of her right down to his smile, said she was the bravest person he knew. But there were others in the shoe store that day who wanted to add their two cents about the girl. Classmates and parents who called her strong and a ray of light and said they were mortified when she was reaped. His knuckles were bleeding before he realized he punched a hole through the bakery wall, barely registering his mother screaming about how much more work he’d have to do to pay for the damages.

He knew something was wrong when he heard his father’s gentle knocking on his bedroom door early in the morning. While it was common for bakers to rise early, Peeta’s body functioned well as an internal alarm clock for those hours. “Peeta.” His father’s voice was so empty.

Peeta would never be able to forgive the brutish boy from District 2 who killed Delly. Who laughed at her screams. Who wiped his sword off on her jumpsuit like she was trash. Peeta watched as the life drained out of her and felt the scream ripping through his own throat. He collapsed into his father’s arms and cried. His father excused him from the bakery the day Delly’s coffin arrived at the doorstep of the shoe store. He watched from his bedroom window with cold, unfeeling eyes as her mother draped herself across the wooden box, her cries echoing throughout the District.

He imagined what would happen when the boy from Two came through for the Victory Tour. The cocky smile and condescending body language he wore during his post-Games interviews made rage rip through Peeta in a way that nothing else had before. He wondered what it would be like to snap the boy’s neck with his bare hands. He imagined watching the boy struggle to breathe. Would he look the same as Delly, gasping and sputtering in an attempt to survive? Would it avenge her death? Would it make Peeta feel better and alleviate the dull ache in his chest?

The line to fill Delly’s spot in the shoe store wrapped around the block. Her younger brother wasn’t old enough to do her job yet, so the family had to hire someone new. She hadn’t been dead for a month and already they were ready to replace her. He overheard the girls talking, hoping that the job meant they could get new shoes for a discount. “Delly never took advantage of her family’s trade, wearing those disgusting hand-me-downs.”

That was the day Peeta Mellark snapped for good.

* * *

 

As Katniss walked her sister to school, she felt a change in the air. Not just because it was her senior year, and she was free from the terrors of the Hunger Games. Katniss didn’t know Delly Cartwright personally. She was a Merchant girl who had too many friends and smiled too much for Katniss’ liking. But she knew Peeta Mellark knew her. And for some reason, that knowledge was at the forefront of her mind as they entered the school grounds. Perhaps because she hasn’t seen Peeta yet, and usually he’s surrounded by a large group of his Merchant friends, laughing loudly. That group used to include Delly. A hollow feeling in Katniss’ chest began to form.

There was no more Delly Cartwright.

Peeta wasn’t in first period, which she only realized when the teacher called his name and he didn’t answer. And the rumble went around the room as everyone tried to figure out when the last time they saw him was. He came in halfway through “History of Panem,” handed the teacher a tardy slip, and slumped into his seat, letting his head rest against his crossed arms. He looked up when the bell rang to release them and filtered out with the rest of the class, running a few into the door frame with little more than a grunt.

Katniss waited until the class was cleared to follow suit. She slowly walked the halls, holding her books tightly to her chest. She had never seen Peeta act that way before. He was always so charming. He was never late to class. This was not Peeta. When did you start paying so much attention to Peeta Mellark? A voice in her head asked.

A clamor in her next class broke her spell. She was shoved along toward the door by the mass of others who were interested in what was happening. Because of her small frame, she easily slipped through to the front and gasped.

Peeta was face-to-face with a teacher, his knuckles clutching the edge of a desk, the vein in his throat throbbing visibly. The teacher, himself, was watching Peeta with narrowed eyes. She recognized the teacher as one who seemed to love to pick on any student who was having a bad day. He pushed buttons just to get a reaction and revelled in the power he had as a teacher. From the look on Peeta’s face, the pain that radiated from his red-rimmed eyes, that’s exactly what had happened here.

“What are you going to do, Boy?” The teacher snarled. “Prove how big and strong you are now?”

Peeta let out a non-human growl as he picked the desk up. The adrenaline was pulsing through his body as his heart raced, signaling the burning rage inside him. In one move that he made look stupidly easy, Peeta threw the offending object out the large windows, shattering the glass and eliciting a crowd of screams from the audience. Peeta snapped his head back, his feral breathing and dilated pupils doing just as much to frighten the other students as his behavior.

Katniss refused to let her mask of indifference slip when he locked eyes with hers, but had to look away. She knew that look, beyond the fear and the anger. It was the same look she had worked too hard to hide, herself. He was in pain. Like a wounded animal that lashed out in it’s final moments of self-defense, Peeta pushed his way through the crowd of students, ignoring those who called for his attention.

In a moment of insanity, Katniss tore a page out of the front of her history textbook and in the margins, simply wrote, I know your secret, if you want help. K. It was rash and impulsive and most likely dangerous. She would never have accepted the same help when her father died and she was reeling from that loss. Then again, no one ever offered. Could things have been different if someone had reached out?

Someone did. She reminded herself. Peeta and his father showed up at her father’s funeral. Peeta placed a dandelion on her father’s casket. And that night in the rain, when Katniss was so close to giving up, when she was prepared to let the hurt and pain completely draw her under, it was Peeta who brought her back with that bread.

This is payback. Finally.

She was surprised to see Peeta back only a few days later. She had no idea what kind of deal his parents made with the officials at the school, but it was enough to get him back, on time, even. She heard the talk from the other students, most congratulating him on finally putting “Old Man Snyder” in his place. But she also saw the way they would skirt out of Peeta’s way when he was walking down the hall. She caught the uncomfortable looks they threw his way, like he was still capable of exploding for no reason. He avoided eye contact with everyone, including his teachers. He let his head rest on his arms or stared blankly out the windows during all of his classes. He didn’t acknowledge or talk to a single person.

Her locker slammed shut next to her and she jumped about three feet to the left. Her stomach twisted as she recognized the sugary scent of the bakery.Peeta. His hand was still pressed firmly against the closed door on her locker and his eyes bore into hers. Crumpled in his other hand was the page from her history book. “What is this?”

She swallowed hard. “I-I-I”

He cocked his head to the side as she stutters through some explanation. “I don’t need your damn help. Got it?”

“I just thought…”

He slammed his hand against her locker. “Get that through your fucking brain. I don’t want your fucking help.” He tossed the paper down at her feet and stormed off.

Katniss was frozen in place as her breath finally caught up to her. She slumped against her locker and slid down to the floor, not trusting her wobbly legs to hold her up any longer. The tears pricked at her eyes. That was not Peeta. And not that she particularly cared - they weren’t friends - but there would always be a part of her that remembered the selfless boy who suffered a beating to save her life.

That boy was gone.

She picked up the page of the history book, content to throw it in the garbage so no one else could ever find it. A small wet splotch on it caught her eye. She carefully pried it open and saw that the ink on it had smeared. Water droplets. No, she realized. Tears. Maybe there was hope for him after all. She owed him this. Just offering her help wasn’t enough to repay her debt to him. He savedher. She had to do the same.

Peeta didn’t talk to her again after their encounter at her locker. She could feel his eyes on her from between his arms, but couldn’t tell for sure. She kept her eyes forward, not wanting to make the first move, yet again. She could wait him out; she was the hunter and he was now her prey. And as a good hunter, she knew that once her presence was known, it was up to the hunted to come close enough again.

As it turned out, it wouldn’t take long for the opportunity to present itself.

She didn’t watch the fight outside the school; she heard enough of the story from enough people to know Peeta and the Butcher’s son had gotten into it pretty bad. Fists were thrown and landed, and it was the familiar stomp of Peacekeeper boots that broke it up. Both boys were bloody messes, though Ruba’s son was close to waving the white flag. Peeta was out of control, laying down hits even when the other boy was pinned firmly to the ground. But what, or even who, started the fight no one was particularly sure. No one saw the beginning, only the middle and the end. Peeta stumbled away from the fight and toward a small grove of trees that lined the back of the school and providing a secure walking trail to the Slag Heap.

Katniss slipped off in that direction, confident that no one would be brave enough, or perhaps stupid enough, to follow after him. But she knew what she was doing. At least that’s what she told herself to prevent herself from chickening out. She scanned the path for signs of his whereabouts; broken leaves of a scattered mind. She found him sitting back against a tree, his knees against his chest, arms around around his legs, head leaned back against the trunk.

She approached him cautiously, her footsteps silently avoiding the fallen leaves around her, and catches sight of his knuckles. Broken, bloodied, bruised. She squats down in front of him and gently takes one hand in hers. He flinches and his eyes spring open. Fat, black pupils with only a sliver of blue looked back at her and his fingers caught her wrists.

“What the fuck do you want?”

She didn’t struggle. “I came to help.”

“I don’t fucking need your help.” His grip tightened and she choked back a cry of pain. “What part of that didn’t you get the first time?”

“Your knuckles will get infected if you don’t clean them properly.”

“Why the hell do you care?”

“Because one of us needs to.” His pupils thinned out and his grip on her loosened at her explanation. “I have supplies in my bag, salves, things that will help. My mother is a healer.”

He let her go and watched her scramble into her bag. She began to rub a cream on his knuckles. He hissed and tried to pull his hands away but she pulled back with a defiant look in her eye. When she finished, he turned his hands over, revealing the insides of his hands, marred with angry crescent nail scars.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” She asked, nodding at his hands.

“Yes.”

“Why do you do it?”

He hissed again when she rubs the salve on the fresh marks. “The pain helps me focus.” She let go and quietly bandaged his hand. “Or avoid focusing.”

“On what?” She reached for his other hand and slowly began to bandage it.

He sighed. “On how fucking wrong everything is.”

It’s all she got out of him that day. A switch flipped in his brain and he began to growl and snap at her. She left with the instruction to change the bandages and let her look at them in two days. He told her to fuck off.

She awoke one night to the sound of pebbles being tossed at her window. She pushed it  open and stuck her head out, surprised to see Peeta standing on the ground with a handful of rocks in his hand. “Peeta?”

“I need…” he croaked.

Katniss slipped on a pair of shorts and shimmied out of the house and down the tree near her window. When her feet hit the ground, she saw what he meant. His nose was bleeding and a bruise was forming over his eye. “What happened?” She asked, skimming her fingers over the afflictions.

He grabbed her wrist. “I got into a fight. Obviously,” he answered.

“With who?”

“Does it matter?” The blue returned to his eyes as he admitted this.

Her face softened. She glanced back up at her window and sighed. “My mother should have some things. She’ll be able to fix this-”

“No!” He growled, pushing her away. “Forget it.” He turned away from her and sulked off into the night. Katniss rubbed her wrist, running her fingers over the purple bruises that were forming from his consistent grabbing of her. She should let him go. But the feeling in her chest is too strong to ignore. She climbed back up the tree, filled a small leather pouch with a collection of the plants her mother kept downstairs that she hoped would help, and quietly crept out the house, glad her mother had Gale take care of the squeaky spring in the screen door. Under the cloak of darkness, she made her way across the square to Mellark’s Bakery. She had no idea which room was Peeta’s and she knew better than to wake up his mother. Luckily, his silhouette appeared in one window. She picked up a rock and threw it directly at him.

“What the fuck?” His head popped out of his window and spotted her down below. “What are you doing here?”

She held up the pouch.

In the back room of the bakery, Peeta Mellark let her rub herbal remedies over his scars. And any time he got into a fight, he immediately found her, and only her, to help him. He never talked to her - or anyone else - otherwise, unless it was to lash out at them for reminding him too much of what he had lost. She would try to calm him down, but he was often too lost in his own mind, too stuck in the pain he was feeling, to even know she was there. He would push her away, grab onto her too tightly, and there were moments she couldn’t tell if he was about to kill her or if he was trying to protect her. There was a war raging in his mind that only he knew about, no matter how hard she tried to understand.

He slipped into his old self for brief moments at a time and only around her.

* * *

 

“What the hell is this, Katniss?” Gale pushed down the sleeve of her hunting jacket, exposing the ragged, shallow cuts on her arms.

She defensively pulled away. “Nothing. Leave it.”

Gale narrowed his eyes at her. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed, Catnip. The bruises. The limp you had a while ago. I know hunting accidents and that was no accident. He’s a lost cause.”

This latest came when she found Peeta in the Hob, wildly jabbing a knife in Haymitch Abernathy’s direction. “You bastard!” He was screaming, “You let her die! You killed her!” By the time Katniss got the knife away from him, she had been cut by the blade a few times. Nothing too severe but enough to draw blood. Peeta had dropped the knife and stared at her arm. “I’m no different. They’ve already changed me,” he whispered. Katniss had no idea what he meant by it, but he easily let her lead him away and Haymitch agreed to let the whole situation go.

She shoved him away from her with all her force. “Stop.”

“He’s a monster, Katniss! Don’t you see that? He can’t control himself and you think that somehow you’re different? He would have killed Abernathy, right there in the square. You know that.”

“No.”

“I won’t let him hurt you, too.” He turned and stormed away from her, out of the forest without collecting the rest of his snares, and toward the District. Toward the Bakery. Where all the Mellark boys were working.

* * *

 

Peeta heard his name being called from outside the bakery. He opened the back door and saw Gale Hawthorne marching toward him. “We need to talk,” Gale spat.

Peeta felt his heart begin to race. His hands clenched and he pushed his shoulders back. Who the hell did Hawthorne think he was to just demand things of him in such a tone? His eyes focused and he noticed the twitching muscle in Gale’s forearm. Without a thought, Peeta lunged at him, easily knocking the older boy to the ground.

Gale was not one to go down so easily. His reach was longer and he was able to get swings in just as efficiently as Peeta. “You leave her alone!” He yelled. “I’ll fucking kill you if you hurt Katniss.”

Katniss. Peeta growled. With a force he never realized he had, he shattered Hawthorne’s nose. Peeta was relentless, as blood covered both boys. He had no recognition of anything anymore, his world was a black hole and all he knew to do was fight it out. He let all his rage flow through him. He felt like he was underwater - his breathing was heavy and the world was muffled. He felt Gale grow limp and stop fighting back but Peeta couldn’t stop. His arm was tired but he couldn’t stop.

“Peeta.”

He knew that voice. Looking up, he saw her. Katniss was standing a few feet away, staring at him with a blank face. Everything halted.

“Peeta.”

As if a trance, he released his hold on Gale, leaving the boy beaten to a pulp on the ground and walked toward her. She led him to the Victors Village, into one of the many unused homes. She had heard stories of District kids getting into them when they wanted to avoid the Slag Heap, so she assumed they’d be easy to sneak Peeta into. Plus, those houses were the only ones in the district with heat and a shower and she needed more than the cold buckets of water she’d find at her own home. She stripped off his bloodied clothes, sat him in a large bathtub, and turned the shower head on over him. He watched the water swirl and drain, water mixed with grime mixed with blood. And he heard her sing. About a hanging tree. He reached out and grabbed her wrist. “I need help,” he said in a broken voice.

Katniss nodded. “I came to help.”

“How do I make it stop?” There he was. The boy he used to be. He was breaking, piece by piece, all over again. He felt the blackness threaten to swallow him whole.

“I don’t know.”

“They go on with their lives,” he started quietly, his limbs violently shaking, “like nothing’s changed. I don’t understand, Katniss. I don’t get how they can all think like that when in reality…”

“Something has changed,” she finished. “There’s a piece of you that is missing that you’ll never get back.” She fished out a washcloth and began to rub it gently over his back. “I know.”

“They get to move on. I’m stuck in reverse.”

Katniss watched as the once friendly, outgoing, joyful boy she grew up with begin to cry. She slipped off her shoes and climbed into the tub in front of him, not caring that her outfit was now soaked. She wrapped her skinny arms around his sturdy frame, holding him as tightly as she could, continuing to sing softly in his ear until he stopped shaking.

“How did you know -”

“I can remember it’s what I wish my mother had done for me. What I wish anyone had done for me,” she offered, allowing herself to open up to him.

“I’m sorry your dad died. I should have done more.” His voice was ragged and rough and he mumbled it into the soft skin of her shoulder

“You did more than you know. I’m sorry Delly died,” she offered when he relaxed enough to envelope her in his embrace. “But we’ll get you through this. I promise.”

“Why are you always helping me?”

“Because it’s what we do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Major thanks go out to Sunfish for being an amazing beta and friend! And thanks to MissHoneyWell for moderating PiP all by herself. Both are lovely ladies!


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